


cruel is just a thing you do

by aeternaliternovae



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Bonding Over Shared Trauma, Canon Compliant, Critmas Exchange 2020, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28267539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeternaliternovae/pseuds/aeternaliternovae
Summary: “We aren’t going to prove ourselves by being frightened. Weneedyou, Bren.”Clutching to his faltering bravery, he leaves the Beck homestead behind, clenching and unclenching his fingers rhythmically as he feels heat lick along the lines in his palm.
Relationships: Astrid/Eodwulf/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Critmas Exchange 2020





	cruel is just a thing you do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauren (LaurenThemself)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurenThemself/gifts).



> Critmas Exchange 2020 fill for a Caleb/Astrid/Eadwulf prompt!
> 
> Fill has some implied reference to abuse similar to in-canon reference. Trent is mentioned in this fic, but technically does not appear on screen. 
> 
> Rachel/Theatricuddles, thank you for the beta read!

It starts, as much manipulation does, with praise.

Bren’s professors start to call on him more often, extol his precociousness, and the compliments are addictive. He is sixteen, and he is destined for greater things than his birthright.

The praise means that he is succeeding, striding beyond his humble beginnings. His birth left him predetermined towards the same path of his father, his neighbors, his peers – one of monotonous hard work with calloused hands and sun-worn worry lines etched on his skin. There is no glory to be found at his hometown. Blumenthal sits at the peak of the Silberquel Ridge, at a tributary near the Amber Crossroads. This leaves the soil lush and trade plentiful, the fate of anyone born poor sure to be trapped in the undertow of the land. There is nothing to aspire to when there is good soil and the manual labor inherited from your father laid out before you.

Now, Bren can outrun the banal fate of becoming a farmer or common soldier if he just tries _hard enough _. His professors at the Soltryce Academy commend his wit, his uncannily quick ability to pick up whatever spell is put before him, his dogged eagerness to learn. He has only been here for about a year, and each compliment feeds the fervent ache inside of his chest. Bren is sure, so _sure_ , that this is where he belongs. He has an honest purpose here that feels truer than anything else he has ever felt.__

__So he studies, and learns, stays up late enough reading that his eyes flutter with the desire to sleep as he sways over his breakfast every morning. The gap between letters sent home grows wider. The monotonic letters from his parents seem assured that he must be working so hard to go so long without contacting them, between the tiresome reports on how the wheat is faring and how many calves were born this spring. At first, it simply slips his mind to write back more often than not, and as his curriculum picks up, taking the time to write home is simply a waste of valuable time to work._ _

__His efforts are rewarded when he is summoned, without much preamble, to report to one of the head instructors for information on a new studying opportunity. _Finally_ , after a year of endless work, he is being acknowledged and given a chance to really prove himself to the faculty. _ _

__As he stands in front of the imperiously carved wooden doors that lead to Professor Ikiton’s office, he side-eyes the two other students on either side of him. This is an unwelcome variable in his desire to rise among the student body. Bren didn’t realize that two other students were going to be recognized for their efforts as well, and he feels some of the wind deflate out of his sails as he sizes them up in his peripheral vision._ _

__The boy to his left is tall, wide for their similar age, with a build more befitting a soldier than a typical student of magic. The girl to his right has curious eyes sweeping over the door, her silent companions, observing all around them. Of course Bren knows both of them – they are Eadwulf and Astrid, classmates allegedly from the same hometown as him. Bren knows of them in the same nebulous way he’s aware of the rest of his classmates, as other bodies in his orbit, but not much significance beyond that. How, or why, are they getting the same accolade as him? What does it mean? Aspiration burns acrid on his tongue as he wonders after what is in store._ _

__As the monolith of a door creaks open, absent of an attendant on the other side, Astrid’s brown eyes flit to Bren, and a small smile curls over her lips._ _

__-_ _

__The routine Bren became accustomed to vastly changes once Professor Ikithon withdraws the trio to his country house. The structure of classes is absent, and the demands put upon the teenagers shifts to a fervent pace. Instead of scheduled classes, the three of them might be required to spend days mastering the same spell, while the next week pivots to learning about the governmental structures of the Menagerie Coast and the Dynasty. There is no knowing how long they might spend on one topic, and what exactly placates their single Professor enough to convince him that they have mastered the task in front of them, even when the sun has long set. No matter; all of it is of importance, and Bren devours it._ _

__Above all else, what becomes apparent is how essential their work is. Ikithon emphasizes, dawn to dusk, that every avenue of study they follow is essential to them becoming the best citizens of the Empire that they possibly can, to repay their debts. It is their Empire and their King that has given them this opportunity to voraciously learn. Their Professor assures them that not every student is so lucky as they are – and they should act accordingly. They are lucky._ _

__Eventually, it becomes inevitable that the orbit grows tighter, and Bren can no longer blithely ignore his two comrades, now that they are the only company he has. It’s too awkward to go on pretending that he is his own universe, and he eventually gives in to Astrid’s keen needling and Eadwulf’s amused observation of Bren’s resistance._ _

__At first, Bren begrudgingly accepts the presence of the pair. Ikithon is often attending to his own affairs when he isn’t instructing them, and there is no company to keep but theirs. He is slow to talk, to open up, but as seasons swirl by, he finds that he has come to actually _like_ their company. _ _

__Astrid is shrewd and smart, just as ambitious as Bren is. She throws herself just as eagerly into whatever assignment given to them, and Bren often finds himself not just chasing after a vague metric of success, but a true desire to outpace Astrid. She is the unit of measurement for his success, whether he can memorize faster than she can, or if she gets clearance first from Ikithon that she has controlled a spell to his liking. The latter is always punctuated with a swift smirk aimed at Bren, stoking his rampant need to be better than he is now._ _

__Eadwulf is an anachronism. He is steady, unruffled by the competition between his two isolated classmates. His words are few, usually only elicited from him when prompted, seemingly pleased enough to just watch Bren and Astrid bicker over the value of certain components or the best use of certain abilities. But nothing passes his observation – he seems to absorb everything, and while he may not be as quick to master skills as the other two, everything is done with a firm precision that gets him just as much commendation from their teacher._ _

__Months pass, and Bren realizes how much he likes his new life. One day, he’ll remember to write to his parents to let them know how much better things are now, and how happy he is._ _

__-_ _

__He is seventeen, and his arms _burn_._ _

__He goes first – he is, after all, the prodigy. Professor Ikithon seemed pleased with their attempt to forge him into a better mage, but Bren knows that it’s _wrong_. After the hours of confusion and pain, he is told to go rest in his room._ _

__Bren knows that this is part of a plan, part of his role partaking in the greater good for his homeland. He cannot possibly hope to prove his worth to his school if he doesn’t just endure, but underneath the tumultuous, warring emotions cascading through him, he cannot help but feel somehow betrayed. If this is all for a good reason, and will make him a better mage, then why does it hurt?_ _

__He immediately curls up into bed, gritting his teeth against the foreign pain. That sense of wrongness, of rejection, of something not being quite right, roils low in his gut. In an attempt to sooth himself, he tangles himself up in his blankets. Eventually, he cannot bear it any longer, and he weeps, quiet sounds smothered into his pillow._ _

__After a long while, his door opens, and he hears two figures make their way into the dim room. Bren refuses to lift his head from its burrowed position in his blankets, too focused on hiding his shameful reaction and his tears._ _

__The bed dips underneath him as one body sits, a large hand resting on his hip, firm and solid._ _

__The other figure kneels close to his head, softly tugging some of the bedclothes away from his arms. The green scent of herbs wafts towards him as he feels a warm poultice curve around his forearm, the fragrance hooking tethers into memories of long summer days in Blumenthal. He flinches against the contact, but Astrid shushes him, spindly fingers soothing back the hair that is revealed beyond his blindfold of blankets._ _

__“Be brave,” she murmurs, voice a whisper of reassurance. “We know it’ll all be worth it. Just be brave, Bren.”_ _

__-_ _

__That horrible day tilts his axis, and the world around Bren adjusts accordingly. Their lessons start to change. The dangers of foreign propaganda, the ideal way to undermine a despot. Espionage. Simple hand-to-hand combat. Subterfuge. The earlier joy over his lessons diminishes as the true nature of their work comes to light. They are being trained to be the future hope for the Empire. Without people like them, the tyranny of other nations might be allowed to thrive, and it is essential for them to make sure they learn and fight well for their King. It is grim work, but necessary._ _

__It all has to be worth it._ _

__The three of them are inseparable from then on. The exhausting, yawning nights of studying alone are suddenly flooded with shared candlelight, the three of them pooling whatever extra food they’ve managed to sneak away into their rooms. Bren spends time with Eadwulf and Astrid of his own volition, not just because of lessons, and he finds a desperate warmth in their company. Once his heart knows to seek out this warmth, he cannot seem to stop his pursuit of it. He doesn’t realize how _lonely_ he is until he feels the first twist of affection, and he is suddenly ravenous for the attention._ _

__After one particularly visceral nightmare, he finds himself stumbling to Eadwulf’s room in the middle of the night, unsure of what his goal truly is, save for keeping isolation at bay. It isn’t the first time he’s had restless sleep, but certainly the first time his hindbrain has commanded that he seek out the company of another instead of lying awake in his bed, watching the grey dawn creep in._ _

__Despite his efforts to keep the door soundless with his entry, Eadwulf is awake in a moment, sitting up straight in his bed, eyes alert. The other boy takes in his bedraggled appearance in a moment, and the tense assessment around his eyes relaxes marginally. He shifts over in the bed without a word, flipping down the covers, silently offering one side of the bed to Bren._ _

__Just as quiet, Bren clambers into bed with him, sliding in between the sheets. Wulf is larger than him, and ergo seems to radiate heat, but Bren is still shivering as he rests his head on his hands._ _

__The blankets are pulled back up over his shoulder, and underneath it a hand rests on his waist, faintly urging him closer. Within a moment, Bren is curled up against Eadwulf’s chest, breath shaky as he screws his eyes shut, waiting for the smoky echoes of his nightmare to pass over him. All Eadwulf does is hold him, steady as mountains._ _

__Time passes, and by the time Bren realizes he’s matching his breath with Wulf’s, he’s already drifting off to sleep._ _

__-_ _

__There eventually comes a point where they start to have individual lessons alongside their main teachings – and they are told to not concern themselves with what the others are learning._ _

__Perhaps a few months ago they would have confided in one another anyway, but after Bren’s Lesson, there is an unspoken agreement between them to not question their Professor. It has to be for a good reason, and their obedience and diligence will make them better, more powerful mages for the Empire._ _

__During an evening when Bren wanders into the kitchen, after realizing he has gone most of the day without eating, he is welcomed by a figure bent over the water basin, the sound of a soft hiss of pain accompanied by softly splashing water. In a moment, Bren is at Astrid’s side, asking what is the matter._ _

__Astrid’s eyes dart up to him, and she fails to hide her hands against her chest in time. The skin is is hot an angry-looking, bright pink and swollen. All Bren can do is stare for a moment, unable to answer before Astrid does._ _

__“It’s nothing,” she answers his unspoken question, mouth a tight line. “Accident from my lesson. It’s fine.”_ _

__“What,” Bren wonders, “are you learning on your own that caused that?” He knows it’s blasphemous to what they have all promised to one another, but his dedication to that promise flies out the window as he watches Astrid clearly suffering, and clearly trying to stifle how much pain she’s in._ _

__“Only what I need to learn,” she volleys back, flint sparking in her eyes. Astrid holds her hands tighter to her front, as if that will hide how inflamed and weeping they look. “I won’t have you babying me, as if I can’t manage this on my own.”_ _

__The words make Bren’s chest twist, as if the implication there is that _he_ is the one who cannot manage. _ _

__“Astrid,” he implores. “Let me see? Let me help you.”_ _

__It takes a long, tense moment before Astrid finally starts to unfurl. Bren holds out his hands, and Astrid gingerly rests her near-mangled ones in his, sucking in a low breath of pain._ _

__Bren’s eyes trace over the hurt flesh. “Fire?”_ _

__“Acid,” she admits, tone rueful. “I have to get more precise. I have to be _better_.”_ _

__“You are,” Bren murmurs, tenderly holding her hands as if they were fledgling, frightened birds. “You will be.”_ _

__-_ _

__It wasn’t as hard, leaving Eadwulf’s house. Eadwulf himself had simply entered and exited his own home after some time that both felt too long to endure and too fast for what was coming to pass._ _

__Astrid’s is harder. Conviction, cast in iron and forged with his pounding determination, got him this far, but there was something that seemed slightly wrong as they leave Astrid’s house behind them. It was only the three of them, true loyal patriots, who could root out the dissenters, but his untainted dinner sits heavy in his stomach as he plays back the events of their supping. Astrid had, indeed, gotten better._ _

__His legs sway underneath him, and Astrid snatches one of his hands, demanding with the gesture that he remain upright. “Stay brave,” she hisses, the icy grasp of her fingers in his arresting. “We aren’t going to prove ourselves by being frightened. We _need_ you, Bren.”_ _

__Clutching to his faltering bravery, he leaves the Beck homestead behind, clenching and unclenching his fingers rhythmically as he feels heat lick along the lines in his palm.  
\- _ _

__He is thirty three, and seeing them again feels like his ribs are cracking apart to make room for the emotions that hibernated in his chest._ _

__A lifetime – the existence of an entirely different person – has passed since Caleb saw the pair of them the last time. He saw Eadwulf with the beacon, back at the Sanitorium, and sought out Astrid on his own. Each of those moments felt not quite real, truly as if it was in another life when he turned to these two for comfort and reassurance and companionship. The same essence is there, but over a decade and too many sins to name sits between Caleb and the last time he has embraced either of them._ _

__While in the Sanitorium, and his years on the run after that, he was able to look back on his school days as a time when he was hurt, manipulated, abused, but never alone._ _

__But now, at the dinner with them and the Mighty Nein, all of his feelings are shoved into sharp, excruciating relief. It was easy to romanticize and pretend with the memories of the two of them, even with his passing individual moments, but as questions descend around his ragtag group about their deeds, their affiliation with Vess, and with the Dynasty, the gap between them is an aching canyon that cannot be leapt. It is a reality that cannot be denied._ _

__Their lives are infinitely different, and the memories of teenage affection he kept close to his heart all this time might never be more than that. Astrid’s admission of missing him, then followed by Trent’s insouciant reminiscing over his decade of agony, makes all of the feelings inside of him wrench, as if trembling from the worst kind of poison. It is _unbearable_._ _

__It isn’t until after the meal is over and the two disparate groups walk alongside one another, his beautifully chaotic band of mercenaries and his childhood ghosts, that Caleb feels like he can catch a breath. The entire endeavor has ripped his nerves to shreds, and he doesn’t know what piece to pick up first._ _

__But something shifts slightly, a new axis change, as Eadwulf shares his liquor, his smile the same steady warmth from his memories. His arms are lined with weaponry inked onto his skin, but the set of his jaw is the same as he has etched into his mind. This is the same man who once soothed away his nightmares, and the memory lingers on his mind as he shares the bottle of liquor with him, lower lip curling against the same mouth-warmed glass._ _

__And then Astrid both is and is not who he remembers. She has the same sharp wit, the same wickedly sharp attention on the room, but there is pause there in her demeanor. Calculation. Years. It makes him wonder what else there is that he doesn’t know of, and what else he could find out if he is able to talk to her straight, to know her, to see her be the same woman who once allowed him to see her weakness._ _

__He does not want to race._ _

__But he does not want to lose._ _


End file.
